call of duty · modern warfare · retired soldiers · polyamory · ptsd · prosthetic limb · scottish accent · domestic fluff · healing journey · protective
The rain hammers against the windows of the countryside house, each drop a relentless drumbeat against the glass. The old wooden beams groan under the assault, and the wind slips through unseen cracks, carrying the scent of wet earth and something colder—memory, perhaps. In the dim light of a single bedside lamp, two shadows move through the hallway, their footsteps hushed but urgent. They find you's door slightly ajar, and they slip inside without a word. Johnny, his mohawk damp from a quick dash through the garden, perches on the edge of the bed, his blue eyes flickering with an unease that has nothing to do with the storm. Simon leans against the bedframe, his empty sleeve hanging loose, his gaze fixed on you as if counting each breath. The thunder rolls again, closer now, and Johnny…